


Staring straight ahead (right through me)

by nea_writes



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea_writes/pseuds/nea_writes
Summary: When Cross is murdered in their home with no leads or witnesses, Allen takes matters into his own hands to succeed where the justice system has failed him. Corruption and crime are rife in the City of Notions, and Allen dives headfirst into the heart of it.A rash of murders have spread through Boston and the public is an outrage. Commissioner Leverrier has placed his very best at the forefront of the investigation, but Lieutenant Detective Howard Link never expected for the case to hit so close to home.Or to his heart.





	1. amplify the sirens

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works since... April of 2017. I have a lot planned for this so I'm really excited to finally start posting it. As it is, the tags are there for a reason, so please take heed that this fic is kind of bloody and violent and it's most definitely not nice. 
> 
> A shoutout to Pea, who was the inspiration for this particular piece. They always wanted laven, and what better way to give it than in the form of bloody murder? (No one ever said I was good at gift giving.)
> 
> This fic was inspired entirely from the line "the stairs were stained with blood and wine."

_Does Allen know?_

_He doesn’t need to know — funny that you mention him though. What do you care?_

_Of course I care! Don’t you know what you’re doing? What you’ve done to him?_

_I’m the one protecting him. That’s more than you can say._

_...I never wanted to hurt him._

_...It’s a shame you’re going to then, isn’t it?_

 

 

Boston was a city Allen had never came to love.

Maybe that was a bit cruel. Allen never really had much attachment to places. He supposed it had something to do with his childhood and how he’d never really stayed in one place for long. He wasn’t all that hung up over it, since in Allen’s fine opinion it was much better to be with the people you loved than to stay in a place without them.

As it was, though, Boston was definitely filled with people he’d come to cherish.

He leaned back in the metal detailed chair, legs crossed at the ankles and stretched out in front of him as he basked in the lazy summer sunlight. He was never on time anywhere, and that could mean arriving thirty minutes early or late. It was his luck he happened to be early this time. He glanced at his useless wristwatch, tapping its glassy surface indulgently. It fascinated Lavi how quickly Allen could break a watch, and there had been a handful of gifts for Lavi to experiment with, observing and trying to puzzle out a phenomenon Allen had long since accepted as truth.

It was August, but it was no where near as hot as Allen had experienced before. Then again, spending summer in India was bound to form that impression. It wasn’t nearly as cold as it could be too, but Allen was a globetrotter, courtesy of the asshole who dragged him everywhere.

It was due to rain soon, if the gray clouds on the horizon were any indication, but Allen bet he had a few more hours of sunlight left, so he closed his eyes, treasuring a rare moment of peace. The breeze tousled his white hair, whisking stray strands across his face. It was getting a little long, but Allen loathed spending money just to keep his hair trimmed.

Somehow, despite the crowds milling on sidewalks during the lunch rush, Allen still heard Link coming. It was how he walked, quickly but unhurriedly, with purpose. He kept his eyes closed anyways, smile already growing as Link approached.

Link scoffed. “I know you can sleep anywhere, but are you seriously asleep outside the bistro like this?”

“I’m dead asleep,” Allen confirmed, eyes still closed. He could practically feel Link’s incredulity.

“I only have thirty-five minutes left on this lunch break,” Link said, fabric crinking as he surely looked at his _actually working_ watch to check. “So I recommend you wake up sooner rather than later.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Allen said quickly, shooting forward to sit straight and giving Link a lopsided grin. “Nice to see you too.”

Link made a face as if he wanted to roll his eyes but instead just turned on his heel to place his order. He neatly piled up the trash on Allen’s table from his first three orders he’d had as he’d waited, throwing them away as he approached the counter inside. Allen smiled, amused. Link’s bark was _much_ worse than his bite.

At least, for Allen it was.

Lavi had said it before. Link was particularly stiff, and not entirely friendly. It didn’t seem that way to Allen though. In fact, Link appeared to go out of his way to meet up with Allen. A fourty-five minute lunch break didn’t necessarily give a lot of leeway in a crowded place like Boston, where any diner was still a good five or ten minutes’ walk from the station.

There was also the little things. Link baked fairly often for Allen, looked after him despite his endless complaining that Link was in no way Allen’s babysitter, and furthermore quietly looked past all of Allen’s misdemeanors he encountered. Not that he saw many. All of them. Most of them.

...Allen was very good at hiding them.

On that note, he thumbed the box of cigarettes sitting squashed in his pockets, glancing at the sign sternly forbidding any smoking on These Premises posted neatly on the bistro’s walls. Sighing, Allen replaced his hand on the table, quelling the urge for a smoke. He normally could go without one just fine, but something about sitting outside just brought about the need.

No. Not a _need._ Simply a… comfort. Allen imagined the lecture he’d get if Mana ever caught him with a smoke and smiled, leaning forward on his elbows to stare sightlessly at the diamond-patterned metal table. Idly, he traced the lines over and over, feeling restless.

“I saw that.”

Startled, Allen jumped up to meet Link’s remorseless stare, one hand holding a tray of food and the other on his hip. He looked _exactly_ like a disappointed mother. Allen grinned.

“Saw what?” He asked gamely, eyeing the tray of food as Link lowered it to the table. Link’s chair screeched horrendously when he drew it back to sit in it, prompting a scowl. Allen thieved a baked fry.

“Saw _that,”_ Link said, nodding pointedly towards Allen’s pocket. Allen offered a smile, attempting to sneak his hand across the table for another bit. Link slapped it away. “I saw that too. You could _ask.”_

“Link can I please please pretty please with a cherry on top have a fry?”

Link’s scowl grew even more pronounced. “I don’t know what on earth possesses me to eat with you of all people.”

“Is that a yes?”

_“No.”_

“You’re no fun,” Allen said, purposefully pouting. Again, that look crossed Link’s face, as if he wanted to roll his eyes. Allen wondered if it was something he held back at work a lot. It was a funny look, all thin-lipped and drawn down brows. Allen did his very best to bring it out as often as he could.

Link laughed, a tiny little huff of air that could have just as well been a sigh, but Allen knew the sign by now, when Link found Allen endearing and not annoying. Link held himself strictly because of his position, but he wasn’t very good at holding himself back.

Crossing his leg over one knee, Allen helped himself to another fry anyways, propping his chin on one hand, “So, how’s work?”

It was less small-talk and more concern over how tired Link looked. His skin was a little dry, and the moment Allen mentioned his job, Link’s face grew pinched.

Link poked around his salad some, spearing some of the greens together, opening his mouth, hesitating, and then choosing to eat before he spoke. Not one to be cowed, Allen remained silent, waiting.

“It’s…” Link glanced at Allen, and then his shoulders fell loose in a gesture of surrender. There was no point in lying or playing pleasant. Everyone knew. Hell, Allen could see a newspaper in the corner of his eyes bearing the very news he expected to hear. Link rubbed at his temple, staring at his salad as if it might provide some solace. “It’s gotten worse,” Link admitted at last.

“Worse?” Allen encouraged, taking Link’s cup to sip from. Link either didn’t care or didn’t seem to notice.

“The department’s getting flack for ‘not doing their job’,” Link muttered angrily. “According to Miss Lacey Jones on the news.” He stabbed at his salad. “Our own are getting killed and they think we don’t care! What’s worse, they’re moving their target from the officers to the civilians. Today marks the fourth murder in as many weeks.”

Allen quietly thought through those words and what it meant. Four murders in a month, not even accounting for the multiple officers killed. It was being reported as _killed in action,_ but everyone knew who’d done it.

It was why they were getting so much criticism for it.

As if reading Allen’s mind, Link continued, voice mounting with frustration. “There’s an _order_ to these things. We can’t just walk into anyone’s front door just because everyone thinks they’re a murderer. There’s no evidence, not even a slip of it.” Link dropped his fork to rub at both temples, eyes closing as if he could still read the reports on his desk. “The court’s hesitating on handing out warrants because of the nature of the profile. No one wants to cross them.”

“If they’re even on our side,” Allen muttered.

Link glared at him. “Don’t even suggest it,” Link said, voice hard enough to raise Allen’s hackles. It was edging on the beginning of a fight, one he and Link had had a dozen times and nearly had too many times to count. Link refused to acknowledge organized crime unless he saw it, and Allen refused to accept such a naive belief. _Of course_ there were corrupt politicians and officers. If there weren’t, Allen wouldn’t be the adopted son of Marian Cross and Cross wouldn’t be a private investigator.

The silence hung tense enough to be tangible, and Allen sighed, breaking it softly. “You know how I feel about it.”

Link looked down. They’d been friends for a while now, long enough that Link had eventually gathered that Cross wasn’t Allen’s father and that Allen’s _real_ father was missing. Of course, due to Mana’s age, there had never even been more than cursory search a week after he’d left, and only because Allen had been ten at the time. Instead, Allen had quickly been ushered into social services, foster care, and eventually into Cross’ hands.

Smiling brightly, Allen snuck another baked fry from Link’s basket. “Come on! Don’t look so gloomy. If you’re with me, you should be smiling.”

Taking the offer, Link snatched the fry back from Allen’s hand, popping the half finished bit into his own mouth. “I should be _eating,”_ Link said tartly, forking another mouthful of salad. “This is the real reason I shouldn’t have lunch with you. I never finish on time.”

Grinning, Allen cupped his chin to watch, admiring the peace that had settled. His life was so rarely still that he always appreciated the quieter moments. It was what drove his urge to smoke — the _need_ to sit down and do nothing but just breathe for five minutes. Between Cross, his work, side jobs, and keeping up some semblance of a social life, Allen hardly had time to sleep let alone do nothing and relax.

Not that Allen slept well most of the time. He had nightmares, horrible dreams he couldn’t really recall outside the feeling that stayed with him long after. He didn’t know why he had so many nightmares, and they varied from terror to abject desolation, emotions so extreme that sleeping had come to be a thing Allen dreaded, at times. It helped when he slept with someone else, but that was hardly a viable option.

But, well, it was about time to start thinking about dating, wasn’t it? Allen was twenty. He was in his prime, he was happy with his work, he was satisfied with his life. Wouldn’t the next step be falling in love?

Love… was not something Allen considered all that much. He’d been embarrassingly prone to crushes on anyone and everyone, friends included. Even passing strangers, standing beside him on the subway or sitting in the seat next to his on the bus, maybe a waiter’s smile — anything would set off fluttering feelings and nerves and blushing, but that had passed a year or so back.

Now, Allen had almost entirely forgotten the idea of being in love.

“What are you thinking about?” Link asked suddenly, startling Allen from his reverie.

A bit embarrassed, Allen rubbed at the back of his neck and offered a smile, “Love, you know?”

Whatever it was, Link had certainly not been expecting that answer. He jerked to a stop, glancing at Allen minutely before clearing his throat roughly and swallowing the bite on his fork. He chewed, swallowed, and then finally dragged his drink back from Allen’s hands to claim. Another hesitation, before he took a sip.

“And what brought this about?” Link asked, stiffly.

Curiously, Allen glanced at him, knee beginning to bounce. “Are you dating anyone? You’ve never mentioned it, but you’re kind of private in the first place.” Grinning deviously, Allen leveled Link with his gaze. “Are you in love, Link?”

It wasn’t that Link didn’t blush often — rather, Allen thought he did quite a lot. It was always around his neck and ears, a lovely flush against his blond hair that made Link look incredibly endearing.

It was rare to see a whole full-frontal blush like this. He turned so red that Allen couldn’t help the way he laughed.

“Walker,” Link hissed, gripping at his fork as if he might stab Allen with it for the crime of sheer mortification. “There’s a limit to how blunt you can be.”

“God!” Allen said, covering his mouth and attempting to reign in his amusement, if only for Link’s poor dignity. “I’m sorry Link,” which he wasn’t, “I really was just thinking about it. Isn’t it something everyone thinks about, every now and again?”

Link still glared, but his flush started to fade, and he fussed with his collar and cuffs, checking his watch. Slowly, carefully, as he stared at his nearly empty plate, Link murmured, “Of course I’ve thought about it… it’s natural to.”

“Right?” Allen said.

Interlacing his fingers, Link let his palms touch then pulled them back, creating a cradle, an unusual display of fidgeting from him. “I’ll… admit that I’ve considered it quite a bit recently,” Link confessed, eyes flickering up to Allen’s before glancing away in obvious embarrassment. “But it’s not a major concern at the moment. I’m so involved in work, it wouldn’t be right to have a relationship.”

Allen hadn’t considered that. Busy as he was, could he even consider sacrificing time for a lover? But then, wouldn’t that be time eagerly and freely given? Link _was_ married to his work though, so that made sense, but what about Allen? Dealing wasn’t all that enchanting, and Allen _could_ work his way up the ladder if he wanted, but the point was that he _didn’t._ It just wasn’t a passion for him.

Did he even want to be in love?

Immediately, the answer was obvious.

He did. Of course he did. All Allen ever wanted was love, in any and every form.

“What… what about you?” Link asked, eyes averted as he spoke, but turning to focus on Allen as the silence stretched, any embarrassment gone.

“There isn’t anyone,” Allen said, gaze drifting back towards the slowly emptying sidewalks. He slumped back in his chair, shoving his hands in his pockets, a rare show of slovenly behavior. He realized now how unbearbly honest this was, to be talking about _love._ No wonder Link had been mortified. “I was just thinking…”

He drifted off, wondering exactly what it was that he wanted to say.

“I was just thinking it’d be nice.”

* * *

They parted ways after that, with Link’s lunch break nearing its end. Allen headed home, riding the subway until he was close enough home and then walking slowly the rest of the way as he thought, one hand clasping his wrist at the small of his back. His slacks were just a smidge too long, having been hemmed from a pair of Cross’, and it showed in the bunch at his ankle. His shoes were a gift from Link though, and they fit perfectly. They were a pair of deep glossy black Oxfords, a little too nice for something like lunch at a cafe, but Link always dressed in business casual and Allen had wanted to blend in.

He lingered on their conversation, both the recent news and murders and the fantastical idea of being in love. A little morbid in retrospect, to talk about love when they’d been discussing murder, but Allen never noticed things like that.

It was still mid-afternoon, and Allen didn’t start work until late evening. He’d been at the same place for so long that when summer months rolled around, Allen always pulled the shifts with the highest influx of patrons, which was something he was grateful for. Dealing wasn’t a glamorous job paywise, and tips went a long way.

Still, he was expected to pull a long shift tonight, and he was feeling the effects of his poor sleeping habits. He deliberated, allowing the aftenoon breeze to tousle his hair as he walked. He still had some work left to do at the house though. There was the housework, for one, not to mention managaing Cross’ finances. The man was home for once, and with that came all his credit bills. Scowling, Allen ticked off another finger — _find another job to pay them._

Allen had his own savings thank you very much, and he refused to dip into them to pay off Cross’ extravagant lifestyle.

Still, despite the bills and the general asshole-ry, Allen would never forget that Cross was the one who took him in when he never had to. Cross never said as much or even implied it, but Allen’s time with social services and foster care had been more than enough to engrave gratitude.

All that being said, Cross was still one pain in the ass.

Sighing, Allen ruffled his hair, pulled it back from his face, then quickened his pace.

Cross, despite all appearances and mannerisms, had a much nicer house (than he deserved). It had two floors (which meant double the cleaning), along with several spacious rooms (that only existed to store all of Cross’ lavish purchases).

Dusting and cleaning those rooms were the bane of Allen’s existence, but luckily he’d just done it a week prior. All he had to do was some basic chores.

Cross’ home was grand, ostentatious, and obviously made to impress. It looked exactly like it’d been ripped straight from the 1920s, with gabled roofs, a large front porch, and one spiral stout tower that completed the essence of the look. It would suit Cross if Cross was a family man.

Inside he toed off his shoes, rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down, and set to work. The walls were cream colored where the wooden panels didn’t reach, and the floor itself was rich and dark. Despite the heavy earthy tones, the many windows lit up the house enough that it never felt crowded, and Cross was tasteful in his decorations. In a lot of ways, it felt more like a showroom than a home, and Cross was hellbent on Allen keeping it that way. The man himself wasn’t home, to Allen’s suprise. He was out, probably on a date or doing ‘business.’

Allen still didn’t know what Cross did for work, but he _did_ work. There was one room upstairs in the house Allen wasn’t quite allowed into. Of course he could go in to _clean_ when needed, but Cross somehow always found out when Allen even attempted to rifle through his things. It was a study, with a heavy wooden L-shaped desk filled with drawers that locked, a sleek black laptop set aside whose password Allen could never unlock no matter how many times he tried, and loads of bookshelves.

It was the only part of Cross’ life that could be considered remotely organized. Allen had attempted to break into one of the locked drawers only once, and the swift consequences Cross delivered gave him nightmares to this day. Even now he dreaded stepping into that room. Allen would swear on his own grave that Cross had some kind of security cameras set up.

It was a mysterious room, though. It wasn’t any more or less different from the rest of the house, with cream walls and warm paneled wood, though it had a large over-stuffed chair that was actually comfortable. The walls not occupied by the desk were lined with shelves stuffed with books, but when Allen had flipped through them he found nothing important. Classics, textbooks, nothing incriminating per se. Aside from the locked drawers and computer, it matched the house to the tee — a showroom, as if waiting one day for someone to actually live inside it.

The only reason Allen knew that there _was_ something, aside from the obvious indication that whatever was in those drawers was important enough to be locked by Cross from Allen, who handled even the most sensitive of Cross’ documents, was that Cross would stay in that room for hours when he returned. There were the base assumptions, of course, but there was no need for Cross to have such privacy when he frequently and easily found any company he could possibly want.

It left Allen a little uneasy, truth be told. Cross let Allen manage his home, his finances, his banks and property and he even had all the passwords necessary to access accounts under his name, but this room alone was barred from him? Allen would feel betrayed if the room didn’t fill him with such apprehension.

In the end, Allen didn’t really want to know.

(Not that it mattered if he _did_ want to, because getting information out of Cross was like asking him to pay a bill. Impossible, among other things.)

In the end, Allen supposed he should be flattered at all that Cross trusted him enough to keep any of those secret files within Allen’s reach. He could have just as well stored them somewhere Allen could have never found, but he kept them here instead.

Sometimes, Allen wondered if it was ever worth putting any thought into any of Cross’ actions. He never knew if he should be pissed, touched, or just plain annoyed. Most of the time, Allen just tried not to think about it.

He normally left that room for last, since Cross wasn’t always home and didn’t always use it even when he was. The rest of the house, however, needed attention.

He swept, mopped, polished the banister of the staircase and, though he knew Cross would notice but not mention it, lit up a few candles to banish some of the lingering cigarette smoke. Cross smoked as he pleased, but he hated for the stink to stick to him.

Done, he pulled the tie lose from his hair and ruffled the strands loose, settling his hands on his hips as he admired his work.

All that was left was Cross’ dreaded ledger. The man sure as hell wouldn’t pay a single bill, but he was damn sure to note down every single expense he had for Allen to later pay.

Allen meandered into the sun room, pulling back all the curtains to let in the high afternoon sunlight. With a stubby pencil behind one ear, Allen pulled one leg up to sit on, settling in the bay window’s seat that overlooked the garden (that, of course, Allen had to pay a gardener for, because Cross would never even touch a spade and Allen had a brown thumb no matter how he tried).

He’d never been able to sit at a table or desk for long to work, and much preferred to just settle somewhere comfortable to focus. On a loose sheaf of paper Allen tallied all the numbers he mentally added, cursing as the number grew and grew. In the book itself he tried his best to keep his writing neat and thin, instead of the usual chicken scratches, as Cross fondly referred to it.

Then, finally, he was done.

He sank back against the wall and stared outside, mind drifting now that he had nothing to occupy it with. He could nap, but he felt too restless after all the activity. Then summer sun was barely beginning to sink, but it was still several hours off from setting.

Idle like this, his mind drifted back to what he had talked to Link about.

Love, and other things.

Hands on his bent knees, he fiddled with the fabric between his gloved fingers, lost in thought. In a way, all things considered, his life wasn’t all bad. It could be better, but anything and everything could always be ‘better,’ and Allen was happy like this. With friends, with steady work, with a house he could call his own, and a routine he could look forward to. It was all he’d ever wanted growing up, when he hadn’t known to appreciate the privilege of a father’s love, whining for stupid things like toys and games.

Allen had sworn to himself when Mana died that, no matter what, he’d keep walking. Just as Mana had.

Through the window he saw Cross’ car pull up. Scowling, Allen shifted his feet back on the floor, standing in a full back-bending stretch and working out any kinks in his neck.

For a moment, he deliberated stopping to talk with Cross, but when Cross stepped out of his car hefting several bags of clearly expensive items, Allen did an about-face and headed upstairs to his room. No doubt Cross had ran his credit up again and Allen had _just_ finished paying it off, too!

Hopefully Cross would assume Allen was out and leave him be. Sitting lost in thought had let his earlier fatigue catch up to him.

He could do with a nap.

Allen jogged up the stairs two at a time and just turned to corner when he heard the front door open and close. Cross set his keys on a side-table, shifting his purchases around, and then Allen walked into his room, swinging his door shut and instantly muffling any noises.

Allen didn’t hear Cross call for him.

* * *

Allen woke with a start, heart hammering in his chest and blood rushing in his ears, eyes shooting open as he gripped at his covers.

What was that? Had that been from his dream?

His hands were shaking hard enough that even as he tried to clench them still they wouldn’t stop, and his heart rate wouldn’t slow down, pounding like jackhammer in place, hard enough to unnerve him.

He could’ve sworn he heard a gun shot.

Allen was familiar was guns. Cross kept several of them, and he’d taught Allen to shoot them. In a strange paternal way, Cross had taught Allen several things. He could almost hear the lessons again, the careful measured way Cross spoke around a cigarette slowly burning, leather gloved hands around Allen’s childish softer ones.

_Never keep your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to kill._

Sitting up in bed, Allen rubbed at his chest, taking measured breaths to calm down. He’d woken up like this from a nightmare a handful of times, and as usual he couldn’t remember the dream itself. Still, he could’ve sworn it’d been a perfectly normal one. Had he even been dreaming?

Then, he heard the front door slam shut.

There was no reason to be nervous. Cross could’ve been leaving, or hell, even coming back. When Allen finally glanced outside his window, the clock in his room still broken, he found it was dark. For a moment, he worried he’d be late for his shift, but Cross knew he was working and never let him oversleep.

Slowly, Allen forced himself to calm down. His room was dark and he laughed a little to himself. Of course he was unnerved, sitting here in the dark by himself. Get a light, a little walking, maybe a triple-decker sandwich, and he’d be fine.

Yet, even as he stood from his bed he only made to move carefully around the floorboards he knew creaked, breathing quiet now, hands at his sides. He knew. He knew there was nothing wrong. He was overreacting. Even if something had happened, Cross wouldn’t let anything _bad_ happen. Allen had never seen him fail. Allen had never even seen him nervous.

Everything was okay.

And yet, Allen left his room, glancing up and down the halls as he moved along the walls, light on his feet.

There were no lights on upstairs, which made sense because Cross slept on the first floor, but the darkness did nothing to ease him. Up ahead he could see the faint glimmer of light from the foyer’s lamp, and he moved closer. He turned the corner towards the staircase.

The stairs were stained with blood and wine.

Allen stood at the top, staring. His eyes grew dry and he blinked, vision blurring with sudden tears. He dashed them away, drew his hand down his face, gloved fingertips tugging at the soft skin of his lips, trembling.

It felt unreal, dreamlike, distant. Resting at the very bottom, as if he'd simply sat down, was Cross.

Red red red hair, like fire and light bleeding through closed eyelids, eyes glittering in contempt, lips pursed forever around a cigarette.

_What are you looking at, idiot?_

Allen gripped the banister tight, forcing the polished dark wood to support the smooth fabric of his glove as he took one trembling step down. His knee nearly gave out on him and Allen took a steadying breath, closing his eyes. Closed, the most vivid memories he had of Cross tumbled around, blindsiding him.

_Stop fucking around — go on, shoot. You're in control._

He let the breath out through clenched teeth, shuddering, and opened his eyes. From behind, Allen could see nothing but Cross' hair, for once slick-smooth and falling quietly. Allen took another step and this time found it steady. He continued down, stopping halfway when he reached the first splatters of blood.

It dripped off the step to the one beneath, a steady _plip plip plip._ Allen toed the growing puddle, smearing it wide, thick. He’d done it without thinking, and the blood seeped into his socks. He withdrew his foot and stepped down and around the trail of blood, straying to the wall. Closer now, and he could see where it stained Cross' hair.

_You're going to know what it tastes like, each and every kind. Never let them get one up over you. Take it, swallow it, all the way down — there we go. Tastes terrible, doesn't it?_

Another two steps. The putrid stench of wine and blood rose in the air, pressed heavy on his skin where it begged to be imprinted. Allen pressed his hand firm on the wall to steady him. It was a pristine cream, understated to complement all the reds and browns Cross favored in his decor.

_You want to try it? Here, go on. Take it... Ha! Remember that the next time you think you're fiending for a smoke._

He stopped on the step Cross sat on. The way Cross leaned heavy on the banister left his hair falling over his face, obscuring that damnably impenetrable mask he always wore.

For the first time in his life, Allen touched Cross kindly, gloved fingertips sweeping Cross' hair away. The porcelain mask remained firmly in place, and, trembling, Allen traced the carved line to his jaw, tracing the edge.

Cross could beat him all he wanted later, Allen thought. He could rage, he could curse, he could do _anything_ he wanted later as punishment for Allen lifting his mask, anything and everything _just God please be alive._

He nudged the mask and it slipped and fell, bouncing off his lap to the ground with a shatter that echoed in Allen's heart.

Cross' right eye remained firmly shut, sealed by a mottled scar from a wound that had surely taken the eye with it. His right brow was burned skin that had never recovered. Cross had been blind the whole time and Allen had never knew.

He jerked his hand away where it hovered over Cross unmarked cheek, took the final step down to the ground, and turned to face him fully.

There, perfectly through his left eye, was the unforgiving gaping wound of a bullet having gone straight through.

Allen stumbled back and nearly slipped on the blood pooling down the front of Cross' shirt, off his legs, on the ground, around his feet. He scrambled for purchase, slapping his hands over his mouth as bile crept up his throat, built under his tongue, burned in his eyes where tears blurred his vision.

A soft keening noise followed. Belatedly, Allen realized it was himself.

Outside, a car started and drove off.


	2. No one needs to know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little dense and not much forward movement, but definitely a necessary chapter.

_ “Allen,” Cross said. _

_ “Yes?” Allen replied, groaning. _

_ “Have some respect,” Cross snapped, kicking Allen’s ankle hard enough to hurt. _

_ “Ow!” Under his breath he muttered ‘stupid bastard.’ _

_ “What did you say?” Cross demanded. _

_ “Supper’s ready!” Allen grinned brightly, nursing his sore ankle. _

_ Cross grinned, knowing Allen was full of shit but still amused. “Bout damn time. Anyways, weren’t you listening?” _

_ “I try hard not to,” Allen muttered, moving towards the stove to inspect a pot. “Are you going to want any or can I eat all of this?” _

_ “I have a date tonight. The hell would I stick around to eat your food for?” _

_ “Of course,” Allen murmured congenially, mentally reciting the fifty-sixth idea of how best to put Cross out of his and Allen’s misery. “What do you want?” At Cross’ thinly arched brow, Allen scrambled to correct himself. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?” _

_ Cross leveled him with a look, but he patted his pockets, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and taping one out on the edge of the island counter. He took his time lighting a smoke, watching Allen all the while. Exhaling, Cross said, “With a smile like that, you could get away with murder and no one would suspect you.” _

_ “Naturally,” Allen said, “I learned from the greatest con known to mankind after all.” _

_ Cross smirked, pleased with the title. Allen fondly rolled his eyes. _

 

 

Allen sat staring at Cross until his eyes drew dry, heart hammering. He felt as if he was sleeping, in a dream too real, too surreal, too frightening to be true. Cross couldn’t be dead. The man had never even aged in the ten years Allen knew him, how could he be dead?

It wasn’t true. It was an act. An elaborate prank like Cross had done all the time when Allen was little, doing anything and everything to get a rise out of him. Allen attempted to stand up but his legs were numb, unfeeling, as if filled with lead. His hands were rooted to the floorboards, as if vines and leaves had grown to anchor him there. 

Distantly, he could hear his own voice.

“Cross?”

The world had narrowed down to just him. Everything else was nearly monochrome, diluted, all except Cross, who burned fever-bright in front of him. 

“Cross,” he heard again, in a voice so small it was almost lost in the ocean roaring in his ears. His body was sinking into the floor but he felt like he was floating. “This isn’t funny.”

“Cross!” Allen’s voice twisted, caught on a sob. “Don’t—”

Cross moved and Allen’s heart leapt into his throat, but his head only shifted forward, hair obscuring the left side of his face as he leaned further into the banister. Still, the movement did something to Allen. 

His fingers were numb and the tips of them were pale and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but he could move at last. He tried to move closer to Cross, but the moment he shifted forward his stomach turned on itself and bile rose fast on his throat. Allen dry heaved on his hands and knees but nothing came up, and he wiped the spittle on back of his glove, ignoring the mess in favor of lifting his watery eyes to the man before him.

Like this, almost choking on his own hysteria with blood puddling before him, seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, reality finally hit Allen.

“Cross,” Allen whispered, face crumpling. “Ungh,” he sobbed, hands vice like on the floor as his shoulders began to shake. He was shaking all over, he realized. Childlike, he began to cry.

Time felt impossibly slow. He didn’t know how long he kneeled there crying hard enough to hyperventilate when it finally hit him that he was in hysterics.

“Someone,” he whispered, voice coarse. He looked around, lost.

Eventually, he realized that he should call someone. His cellphone was upstairs and they didn’t have a landline. Hesitantly, he glanced at Cross out of the corner of his eye, unable to focus on him. Could he do it? Get up and walk past him? He had to. 

Shakily, Allen gathered himself together. This was no time to be falling apart. At least… at the very least, he couldn’t leave Cross like this.

He hated the man, but—

He couldn’t stop the way his breathing hitched or the tears that still ran rampant, but he was at last able to stand. His knees felt like they’d give out on him at any second, but he was standing.

“So weak,” Allen said, shuffling forward a single step. He saw the blood staining his sock and recoiled. Immediately he reached down to pull both of them off, tossing them out of sight. “You’re so weak.”

He skirted the far edge of the pooling blood and reached for the wall, grasping at it blindly as he glanced at Cross. He couldn’t quite look at his face but he kept a steady gaze at his body as he slowly stepped up. 

When he was level with the step Cross sat on, Allen looked down at the crown of his head.

Hesitantly, he reached out.

He could almost feel stray hairs from how close he got, but he saw his gloves and pulled back. He continued back up. The moment he cleared Cross he found it easier to ascend. He still felt like he might fall at any second but at least he wasn’t in danger of doubling over again.

He turned on every lightswitch he could find on his way back to his room, and once there he dug around in his bed sheets for the phone he’d tossed careless there. It took several tries and he nearly locked himself out, but Allen finally managed to input his password. His phone was dying, but it had enough charge to make a call.

He dialed, and then hesitated. Allen had never called the police before.

He called.

 

Fifteen minutes.

Allen sat in a chair in the living room, just off to the side of foyer. His feet were pulled up on the seat and his knees were tucked against his chest, arms wrapped securely around them as his chin rested there. It had been fifteen minutes since he’d called.

There was nothing but silence. Whatever tumult he’d experienced before had vanished the moment he’d sat down. All he’d done was sit and stare at Cross.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he should avert his eyes, to preserve the dignity of the dead, or, or out of… morality, or something. Allen didn’t know. But he couldn’t help staring. Like this, he could assure himself that Cross was dead, and that was that. 

Cross was grossly pale, and his hair seemed to have lost its bright shine somehow. In a way, everything Allen saw seemed dull and washed out. It was as if he was stretched thin, and despite checking the clock on the wall frequently if he’d been asked he wouldn’t have been able to say what time it was.

The clock was ticking but Allen couldn’t hear it. There was nothing but dead air.

Then, like a stampede there was suddenly a flood of officers. Dully, Allen could nothing but comply when they pulled him away and outside. The moment he left his front door he realized it was actually quite late. The neighborhood was rife with life though, from all the officers with the brilliant blinding lights to the every neighbor he had peeking out through the windows. Allen was set aside and an officer began to speak to him, and another stood watching him.

As a suspect, Allen dimly realized, accepting the strange blanket they wrapped around him. He was still shaking, and he was cold, but it wasn’t anything as simple as catching a night chill. It was in the dead of summer, but he was so cold…

After awhile they killed the lights. They stretched tape around the edges of their property — his. Their’s. Cross’. Was this house even Allen’s? Did Cross have a will? Allen didn’t know.

He’d stopped crying but that single thought smarted in his eyes and the tears grew and fell over, spilling down his cheeks and he bent in half in shuddering gasps. He didn’t even know why he was crying. He hadn’t even  _ liked  _ Cross. 

And yet, it felt as if there was nothing to do but cry and mourn.

There was a swarm of activity all around him but Allen felt as if he sat in a bubble, or in the eye of the storm. Eventually, a man walked up to him.

He was tall enough that Allen had to crane his head back. The man stood with his chest out, back straight, and had walked with a gait that spoke of confidence. He wore an obviously expensive suit with a badge pinned on the left chest and, when Allen squinted to see, stars on his shoulders.

“Allen Walker?” the man asked. He had short cropped hair on the sides with the top slicked back, and his temples were beginning to gray in a way Allen suspected to either be dyed or carefully maintained to be. He had a short mustache and a look in his eyes that set Allen’s nerves on end.

“...Who’s asking?” 

The man smirked at Allen’s bravado and reached in a pocket for a small notebook. “Police Commissioner Malcolm C. Leverrier. You may call me Leverrier if that’s manageable.”

Allen stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t know much about city officials, but he was positive a simple… death didn’t warrant the police  _ commissioner.  _ That sounded pretty damn important. Enough so that Allen felt unnerved. 

“...and what does the police commissioner want with me?” Allen asked, grasping the edges of the blanket to pull tighter. 

Leverrier raised a brow as he flicked through the pages of his book. “Depends on what happened here. As far as we’ve managed to gather, a man was murdered and you were the only one around.”

Allen had already knew they considered him a suspect but being blatantly accused ripped through his hysteria induced fog like an explosive. He shot up quickly enough to give himself a bloodrush and immediately the officer at his side grabbed him by the arm and shoulder, restraining him. 

“I didn’t kill him!” Allen spat, chest heaving. “I came downstairs when I heard a gun go off and I saw him and—” his throat closed on him, and to his mortification he felt more tears. Swiping them away with his free hand, Allen gathered his blanket around his shoulders again and shrugged off the hands holding him back. Glaring defiantly, Allen said in a slightly more calm tone, “Instead of accusing me off the bat, why don’t you try asking what happened?”

Leverrier hummed, eyes alight with amusement. He looked at Allen as if he was a specimen pinned on the wall, taking him apart piece by piece. It ran chills up Allen’s spine and he refrained from rubbing his arms in discomfort. 

“If you insist,” Leverrier murmured benignly. “Tell me what you know.”

Allen did, from the moment Cross got home, to when Allen woke up and found him and then called the officers.

“And there was no one there?” Leverrier asked, dutifully taking notes.

Allen thought for a second but shook his head. 

Leverrier asked several more questions, which Allen had nothing but unhelpful answers for. Did Cross have enemies? Of course he did. Ones that would murder? Allen wouldn’t doubt it. At the end, Leverrier closed his notebook and tapped it against his thigh, considering Allen with that same dissecting look.

“For now we have no reason to take you in,” Leverrier said, glancing at his watch. “You’re free to go, though we will keep in touch. Do take care of yourself, Allen Walker.”

 

It was several hours after that before most the officers finally left. There were still some stationed at the perimeter of the yellow tape and a car parked at the curb. There were even more vans belonging to news stations and God know who else. Allen refused to talk to any of the media and hid his face best he could, pulling up his hoodie and keeping his back turned to them. After the investigation had been the forensics crew. Allen had sat outside the entire time. It hadn’t occurred to him to call someone until it was too late to reasonably do so without guilt.

Occasionally a few officers talked to him. Some offered condolences. Some asked questions. A handful asked how Cross was related to him. Whenever he said foster father he always got a strange look.

It was around six in the morning by the time the body was removed and Allen was allowed back inside. He hadn’t even seen when they’d… brought Cross out, but he was glad. All he could remember was that interminable length of time he’d sat simply staring. Guilt rose and curled around his throat and lungs. 

An officer told him that he’d have to independently contract a cleaning crew, and that it was highly recommended he do so. That, of everything, had shocked Allen. He’d never thought to ask who cleaned up after a murder. Somehow, he had assumed the police did it.

That was when the other vans registered and he turned to glance at the people milling on the sidewalk now that it was daylight. Most of the officers ushered them off, but one came near him to point out which were cleaning crews. Of course, the officer went on to say, it’s only after we close the scene. 

Allen smiled thinly. Of course.

 

In the end, Allen was encouraged to go eat something as he still wasn’t allowed back inside. They escorted him to his room following a set pathway, and on the steps closest to where Cross had been there were even taped footprints so that he wouldn’t disturb any evidence. Another office retrieved his phone where he’d left it to charge in the living room. 

They gave him a moment’s privacy in his bedroom to change, where he also grabbed a dufflebag to stuff with clothes and necessities. Belatedly, as he stared at his work uniform, Allen realized he’d forgotten to call his job. He stared for a long moment before taking it and folding it to stuff in his bag as well.

In the bathroom attached to his room Allen showered quickly and refreshed himself before changing into new clothes and finally meeting his own reflection.

He was alarmingly pale.

His lips had lost all color and his eyes were bloodshot. His hair hung damp around his face and as he stared at his eyes, something in his heart broke.

Cross was dead. Cross was dead, and Allen was alone.

He crouched, covered his face, and began to cry again.

 

Instead of leaving out the front door Allen led the officer to the backdoor, reasoning that he didn’t want to run into any journalists. He left through the gate in the backyard, walking through a garden Cross had always demanded he maintain. 

It was brisk outside, not quite cold but not hot enough to be really warm. The sky was a muted blue as the sun sluggishly began to rise, and most of the streets were still empty though they’d soon be packed with the morning commute.

The humidity had broke with last night’s rain, and all the dew on the leaves and grass had remained. Walking alone at this hour like this, Allen felt remarkably alone in the world.

He walked down the sidewalks until he made it to a bus station where he sat and abruptly realized he had no idea what to do or where to go. Allen had no family and neither did Cross. He thought numbly that he had to prepare a funeral, or something, but there wasn’t many people he could call. 

Reminded again of his job, Allen fished his phone out with numb hands and turned it back on. There were three missed calls from his job, a few texts from Lavi where he’d demanded they meet up soon lest he die of loneliness, some emails, and, weirdly enough, one text from Link.

Link [2:45 AM]: I’m sorry.

_ I’m sorry?  _ Allen stared at it, trying to decipher the strange message. Had Link done anything? Allen couldn’t recall. He lingered on the cake emoji by Link’s name for a long moment before it abruptly hit him.

Link knew about Cross. Of course he did. He was the Lieutenant Detective! That was pretty high up in the ranking, wasn’t it? Maybe Link was in charge of the case or had to look over the work or delegate or… or something. Allen didn’t know. He didn’t bother replying.

Allen dialed his job instead. He slouched on the cold metal of the bench and let his head fall back to thunk painfully on the edge, staring at the graffitied ceiling of the bus stop. Inexplicably, he felt the tears start again, and he wiped them away in irritation. Why couldn’t he stop crying? 

The line picked up and Allen immediately recognized the voice. “Boy, where are you?”

Baffled, Allen laughed. “What are you doing there?” he demanded in turn, trying to hide the way his voice came out all wrong.

Tyki Mikk may have been callous at worst and distant at best, but he was never slow when it came to others. “What’s wrong? It’s not like you to miss work without calling in.”

“Ah,” Allen said. For a long moment, he considered lying. He didn’t want others to know, he realized. He didn’t want to tell anyone.  _ Cross died.  _ Who?  _ He… was my foster father.  _ Foster?  _ Yes.  _ Were you two close?  _...I don’t know. _

In the end, he let the silence hang long enough that Tyki sighed, and Allen distinctly knew he was running his hand through his hair. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

“Psychic, aren’t you?” Allen murmured, staring at the pink loop of a y against a black backdrop. 

“Don’t be nasty,” Tyki grumbled. 

“Who knows,” Allen continued, voice level, “it’s probably on the news already.”

There was a sound of papers shuffling and typing. “Well, look at that. They’re a real piece of work, aren’t they?”

They really had already begun to report it. Allen wanted to laugh, so he covered his eyes with one hand. “They arrived as soon as the officers did.”

“Well, there aren’t really names,” Tyki said, attempting to reassure him. “I just recognize your place. Look, listen, don’t worry about coming in okay? I can fill in for you, or have Andres or—”

“No!” Allen said, eyes snapping open with horror. “No, don’t, don’t I’ll come in, I just. I just needed last night, I couldn’t leave, I—”

“Calm down,” Tyki said, voice soft but alarmed. Soothingly, he continued, “Look, don’t worry about it. Are you listening to me? Do what you want or need, just… just keep in touch, okay?”

Tyki sounded concerned, which was funny. Enough so that Allen started laughing in a way even he recognized to be wrong. Tyki remained silent.

“Right,” Allen said, dropping his hand and staring at the red smoky curl of a C. He’d forgotten, he suddenly realized, to pack his cigarettes. “I’ll call you later, Mikk.”

 

He found himself at the closest restaurant he could find that was open. It was a family place, but because of the hour it was more or less bare. The waitress took one look at his face and sat him in the furthest most isolated booth there was, something Allen was thankful for. He settled his dufflebag between him and the aisle and shuffled closer to the window. When he opened the menu though his stomach revolted.

Nothing. Nothing looked good. He couldn’t even stand to look at the food. He ordered some juice, a coffee, and some fruit just so they wouldn’t kick him out. 

The waitress brought his drinks and he freed the straw of its wrapper, but instead of drinking he stared at the crumpled piece of paper.

What was he doing?

Allen didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know the first thing about arranging a funeral or even how to go about fixing whatever mess Cross had left behind. Hell, he was a fucking  _ suspect  _ in the crime, wasn’t he? 

In fact, Leverrier hadn’t even asked him much else about who would possibly have motive for killing Cross. Instead, he’d asked Allen all sorts of questions. Did he know how to shoot a gun, did he own one, did he hate Cross, what was their relationship like, and so on. Allen knew full well that the answers to all those questions incriminated him.

He pulled the wrapper straight and set it down on the table to smooth out the wrinkles. 

_ Did Cross have enemies? _

Yes, Allen thought, crumpling the wrapper. He did. Whatever business Cross did, he had enemies. Ones Allen passively knew about. Ones that were likely inside that locked desk. 

It hit Allen all at once.

Someone had murdered Cross.

He’d been so focused on his death that he hadn’t even registered what it meant. Cross was dead, and someone had murdered him. Someone that Leverrier wasn’t even looking for. Someone who was going to get away with it scot-free.

Cross had been an asshole but he didn’t deserve murder.

Cross had taught him everything he knew now. How to manage a house and cook and drive and to live life on his own. Cross had always been there for him. If Allen ever had a question, Cross might have sat back and watched as Allen did everything wrong until he finally figured it out, but he always gave advice. He’d never turned his back on Allen.

The waitress returned with his fruit and when Allen glanced up to accept it he caught a glimpse of the television. The volume was on low so he couldn’t hear much, but it was live coverage over his own home. Allen watched in disbelief as a pretty blonde dressed sharply in teal and black gestured towards the video footage. Allen nearly couldn’t recognize his own home.

“Oh, excuse me,” Allen said, gaze locked on the screen. “Do you mind turning it up a bit?”

“Of course,” the waitress replied. She left and soon after the volume notched up.

_ —there is some suspicion that this is linked to several other cases that all have the same few traits. There is some confusion about what sets these apart from the others, and despite no known link between the victims, the method and nature of the crime all match up. A single shot to the head or chest, no forced entry, no witnesses, and very little evidence. There is more on these cases if you tune in at 6 where we cover them extensively. Last night’s grizzly murder seems to fit those conditions, though we’re still waiting on the official report. Sadly, the victim left behind a son of— _

Allen closed his eyes and tuned out the rest, resting his elbows on the table and covering his ears. He didn’t want to hear what they had to say about him,

Cross had enemies and he’d done shady things, things Allen didn’t know about. How likely was it that the Noah themselves were involved?

Lifting sightless eyes back to the screen, Allen figured he had nothing to do but find out himself.

* * *

 

The humid night air felt thick between his fingers, on his skin, in the space between his shirt and his back. Lavi roughly ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a few pins and pulling at strands that snapped free. He carefully pulled the pins out and stuffed them in a pocket, staring at the well lit twenty-four hour diner across the road.

It was four in the morning and the first time Lavi had been here, but somehow he knew he’d be here again.

He glanced down the empty dark roads before crossing with a casual loping grace, hands in his pockets and forcing his shoulders lax. If he appeared tense then he wouldn't be any help at all.

The glass door was cold where Lavi pushed on it, and the sharp suction of air as warmth rushed in ruffled his hair. 

The diner was predictably almost entirely empty. A handful of workers and stragglers remained, and in the far corner, slumped almost slovenly in a red plastic booth seat, was Allen.

All Lavi could see was his shock of white hair, but the wayward strands was enough to tell Lavi it was his friend.

He nodded and offered a polite smile to a waitress who glanced his way and walked briskly towards the table, stopping at it to stare at Allen.

He looked like shit.

His eyes were bruised dark, and he had a shiner for his right, cheek still swollen. Allen looked up and smiled, a black empty gesture. Lavi's lip curled. 

"You aren't looking too good there," Lavi said by way of greeting. Allen waved his hand lazily in a dismissive manner, propping himself up with his other to sit straight.

His left hand was bandaged messily, as if Allen had taken it off and then put it back on in a dark room. His hair looked a tad too shiny, skin dry and pale, so pale. 

Allen's life really had gone to shit since Cross died.

"Hey," Lavi said, voice falling soft and gentle, as if speaking to a scared animal. "When's the last time you slept? You look like you're about to fall right over." There was dirt lining Allen's nails, from where or since when Lavi couldn't tell. Allen had always been more or less a particularly neat person. A leftover force of habit from Cross' lifestyle. 

Allen blinked, as if startled, before huffing a short dry laugh. "Can't really remember. I'll sleep when I need to. Hey, Lavi, do you have a smoke?" Allen's right hand jerked up in aborted motion towards his mouth. "I've been craving one for a while now."

Lavi frowned, watching the tremble in Allen's hands. "You know I don't smoke," he said, almost accusingly. 

"Yeah," Allen sighed, sitting back again. "Yeah, but didn't hurt to ask. Never know with you."

"Allen," Lavi said, beseechingly. "Let's go on home. What are you even doing here at four in the morning? You're not... you're not even eating."

"I ate," Allen said dismissively, gaze sliding away from Lavi's and towards the windows. Condensation ran down the chilled glass, a poor mimicry of rain. "There's nowhere to go, so here I am."

"Nowhere to go?" Lavi repeated, brows furrowing. "That's still your home, Allen. I'm pretty sure you're the only person Cross could have left it to."

Allen laughed sharply and suddenly, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. Lavi jerked back, shocked. "Ah, yeah, the only one. I was the only bastard he ever kept around."

"Allen," Lavi said, horror creeping up inside him as he registered that something was truly wrong. "If you... don't want to go back there, how about coming to my place?" Lavi lifted his hand, reaching for Allen's.

Allen drew back, gaze never leaving the window. Lavi followed it and saw their reflections. Lavi looked painfully lonely, beseeching Allen like this while he sat distant and cold, uncaring. He abruptly straightened his back, cheeks burning. Allen didn't seem to notice, staring far beyond the paneled glass. 

"Lavi," Allen began, eyes blank, voice low. "I didn't call you here to baby me. I know I need to sleep and eat. Don't patronize me."

"No!" Lavi said, horrified. "I'm not—"

"I don't want you here," Allen said slowly, gaze sliding from the window to meet Lavi's. "As my friend. I want to ask you for information."

Lavi pressed his lips together, fighting back the impulsive urge to snap that he  _ was  _ Allen's friend. He ground his teeth, fighting the wash of hurt that assaulted him. Allen was mourning. Allen wasn't in the right state of mind. What Allen said now wasn't his true feelings. Allen never said his true feelings. No reason to start now.

"What do you want to know?" Lavi asked instead, moderating his voice until it was perfectly devoid of emotion.

A car passed outside, headlights illuminating Allen's eyes, turning them silver sharp, foreign. It passed, but Lavi couldn't shake the image.

"I want to know who the Noah are."

Lavi stilled, staring at Allen with wide-eyes.

Then, for the first time since Cross died, Allen offered a genuine smile.

It was crooked and sly, eyelids lowering, cold and empty of any warmth that Allen had ever held before. He opened his mouth and he said, "I know you know them."

"I know you know them, and I want you to tell me everything you know."

* * *

 

The clouds rolled angrily overhead, thick and dark, preparing to unleash a thunderous maelstrom that would surely last hours. It wasn't even evening yet but the sun was almost entirely obscured, casting the world in monochrome grays, as if all color had been leeched away. It was the beginning of the end of the summer rains. After they passed the, cold would rush in to take its place.

Allen shifted on the concrete step, resting his feet on the steps below him and his elbows on his knees. He flicked his lighter open, the first spot of warmth Allen had seen in hours, illuminating the pale fabric of his gloves in an amber glow. He brought the fire to his lips, igniting the end of his cigarette and breathing it end. He flicked the lighter shut, exhaling gustily. The smoke trailed up, hazy and indistinguishable from the clouds.

He pocketed the lighter and drew on the cigarette, pulling it away to blow the smoke out once more. 

After using Lavi he hadn't felt right staying with him, too, so he found himself outside Link's apartment, slowly going through the pack of Cross' favorite brand. Well, no, not exactly his favorite. Cross preferred a brand that smoked your lungs to cinders, but on quiet nights he favored the one Allen currently held. 

_ See, there, pull in, hold it — let it go. Feel it? _

_ Yeah,  _ Allen thought, closing his eyes.  _ I feel it. _

He heard the dull thud of footsteps and opened his eyes, meeting Link's startled gaze. Allen smiled, waving a hand. 

"Good afternoon."

Link continued until he was just a few steps short of Allen, wary. "...Good afternoon," Link said, unabashed in his slow perusal over Allen's body. "What are you doing here?"

Allen stretched until his back bit into the concrete edge behind him and then swung into a full stand, looking down at Link. "I wanted to see you."

"Me?" Link asked, frowning. Allen watched as the words processed and Link's eyes darted to the ground, lashes soft blond and hiding the chestnut color of his irises. "Did you... want something?"

Allen took a step down, leaving only one between them. "No, nothing. You were just in time! I was worried it'd start raining while I waited." He smiled disarmingly. 

_ With a smile like that— _

“Link, I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

_ You could get away with murder. _

**Author's Note:**

> nea_chi | twitter  
> nea-writes | tumblr
> 
> Hopefully updated once a week on Monday. Let's see if I can keep to that!


End file.
